


Incalzando

by Llwyden ferch Gyfrinach (Llwyden)



Category: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes series
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:42:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llwyden/pseuds/Llwyden%20ferch%20Gyfrinach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of Mary's death, Holmes reflects on his relationship with Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incalzando

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to my betas, the ever-wonderful Arduinna for English and story help, and the amazing Pyrefly for violin-terminology help!

He hates this time of year.

There is nothing logical or reasoned about the emotion. Holmes tightens his fingers on the bow and the violin's cry echoes his dark thoughts. He plays staccato, his eyes shut as he lets each note resonate through him, lets his own feelings resonate through the violin.

_Really, Holmes, it isn't as if you'll perish without me for two days._

Of course not. How absurd an idea. A rapid arpeggio, the bow bouncing along the strings before he drags it down, forcing a long, steady C from the instrument, holding it until he can play it steadily. No-one perishes from the lack of anything in two days, save for oxygen. Certainly not from lack of companionship.

_The coach returns around three; do try not to get into too much of interest before then._

The next note is vibrato, tremulous and strained as Watson's smile. Up the scale and back to A in a minor key. Whose sadness that reflects, he couldn't quite say. He hates that uncertainty; it's no puzzle to be solved, just a grey muddle. He needs clarity, reason; none of this dark obscurity.

_I shall return before you know it._

Rubbish. How could he not know? It isn't as if there are other things at the moment to distract him. No cases, no concerts. He craves the cocaine he's promised Watson he'll abstain from; he feels the ache as if in his blood. But he is a man of his word, and this word, to this man, he will not break.

A few dissonant chords and another deep breath. He pictures Watson's face, and a different kind of craving seizes him; this one, he will give into, but there is no assuaging the need until the coach returns from the country.

Another two hours. He doesn't need to see the clock; the waiting is etched in his bones and the angle of the sun on his face. Two hours until he has his Watson back in the flat. Two days, based on prior habit, until he has him back from the graveyard. Back from her.

The violin cries in harmonics like a banshee's wail. The cry of a dead woman. The bitter howl of jealousy. His fingers clench on the strings. Damn it all, it really is not to be borne, this unaccountable and insatiable envy. _And besides, the wench is dead._ A thought unworthy of him, he knows. Still, he could really learn to hate Mary Morstan at times.

_I miss her so much sometimes, Holmes._

You can't compete with a memory. There are drugs that will dull them or make the pain more bearable; there are occupations that will fill your mind enough to blot them out for a time; but only time will have you rid of them. And only if you allow it to. Not if you return to it, year after year.

_I need to honour her memory._

The living have a need to make peace with the dead, so he's told. He's never particularly felt it himself. His parents are dead; their bodies lie beneath the soil, natural processes breaking them down into individual components. Beyond a certain clinical interest in the chemistry of it, why should he bother to care?

A string of notes, legato, flowing, then the same sequence, détaché. He considers starting again from the beginning of his impromptu composition today but there's little sense in revisiting the past. None, unless it can inform the future. He plays a variation instead, modulating quickly to a different key, hoping his thoughts will follow suit.

The focus that is an asset to his cases and his studies is a hindrance now, returning his thoughts again and again to the object of his obsession.

_Shall I bring you something back from Northumbria, Holmes?_

_Only what you take there. Less the care and divided attention that attends you each year at this time._ He doesn't say it, but it doesn't stop him thinking it. Sherlock Holmes does not share well.

With a sigh, he changes keys again, sliding gradually into the opening notes of Mendelssohn; Watson's favourite, played slow and sweet. It almost makes him smile.

The street noises outside bring a crease to his forehead; when the half-expected tread sounds on the stairs, his bow falters briefly. Then without pause, he slides back into his own composition. He is half-turned to the hearth as the door opens; he keeps playing until the notes stop coming, their tone and his smile warming before they still. He opens his eyes to see Watson, his coat hung by the door, sitting on the sofa by the fire, watching him.

He sets his violin and bow carefully in their case. "I trust you were not charged too badly for the haste you demanded." Would have had to demand, and the knot inside him thaws a little.

"Not too badly," Watson agrees, shaking his head, his lips quirking. It's not quite a real smile, won't be for another day at the least, but it's an attempt.

Holmes taps out his tobacco and settles into a nearby chair, lighting his pipe.

"I take it from your dress," Watson nods at Holmes' dressing-gown, "that there have been no new clients to engage your interest?"

Holmes' own lips twist in a matching almost-smile. "As requested. Really, Watson; if you had not been able to make that deduction, I should revoke your rights to claim being a man of any thought at all."

He startles a laugh from his friend. "I'm glad I could manage it, then." Watson sighs and rubs his face. "Holmes, would you sit by me, please? I should be grateful."

The lines around his eyes speak of more grief than weariness; Holmes rises and shifts to sit where requested. Watson takes his hand and holds it tightly, his shoulder pressing against Holmes as he leans in ever so slightly.

"I'm certain we could charm some tea out of Mrs Hudson," Holmes offers. "Or you know where the headache powder is better than I, I expect."

"Let me just sit a moment; I'll be well enough." Almost tentative, he lays his head on Holmes' shoulder. After a moment, he sighs. "I hate this time of year."


End file.
